


Bat Country

by Moorishflower



Category: Echo Bazaar, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-17
Updated: 2010-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where you stop is a moot point, really, because all of the States Below is bat country. Based off of the game <a href="http://echobazaar.failbettergames.com/Home/AboutFallenLondon">Echo Bazaar</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bat Country

  
"Fucking false-summer," Dean mutters, wiping sweat from his forehead. Sam nods in miserable agreement. False-summer in the States Below is quite possibly the most awful thing that Dean's ever had to go through, and he's speaking as a guy who once spent an entire week hunting kelpies in the Fractal Pits just outside of Old New York. The worst part, he thinks, is that it never changes – the humidity never goes away, not even for a day, and the fog is always soupy and smells faintly of sulfur, and the clouds of fungal spores make Dean's eyes all red and itchy. Sam is the only person for miles around who's immune to spore-fever, and he's the envy of everyone who happens to see him. Dean's had to fend off more than a few heat-mad lunatics who've wanted to skin Sam's face and wear it like a surgical mask against the spores.

"I talked to someone today," Sam murmurs, idly rolling down the window of the Impala. It doesn't do anything, not for the heat and not for the view. Everything around them is clouded in vague, phosphorescent darkness. The streetlights haven't been turned on – the World Clock has yet to strike six a.m.

"Huh," Dean says. Sam talks to a lot of people. It's sort of their job, but Sam likes it better than most. He has this…quality about him. A sort of persuasiveness. Even the honey-addled are willing to give him their secrets after a few minutes of quiet conversation. "Who?"

"She didn't give me her name. Just said that she was from the Fifth City. That she remembered the Surface, before the bats came."

"Bullshit," Dean says. "The Bazaar ate the Fifth City like, a thousand years ago."

"A hundred and twenty," Sam corrects dryly. "But that's what she said."

"Yeah, well." Dean reaches into the glove box for the unopened bag of Mr. Heart's Fox Jerky, tossing it to Sam so that he can have first pick. It means that Dean is usually left with the parts that are mostly gristle, but he's okay with that. "She was lying, then. There's no one left from the Fifth City. Definitely not someone as old as that."

"She looked pretty old," Sam argues, tearing open the vacuum-sealed bag and pulling out something that looks like it might have once been a paw. He grimaces at it, but hunting down monsters doesn't pay well when it seems like the whole country's been overrun with them, and so they can't afford to be picky.

"So," Dean says, attempting to change the subject. "You see that devil today, too?"

"Her name is Ruby," Sam says, with the long-suffering air of someone who's used to making the correction. "And no, I didn't see her today. She's at the Brass Embassy, working."

"Tallying up souls, huh?"

"She doesn't work with souls, Dean, she works in exports. Devilbone and Nevercold brass, that sort of thing."

Dean snorts. "'Export' is just another word for 'deal' as far as I'm concerned. That's all devils care about, Sam. Making a deal."

"Ruby's different," Sam murmurs. Dean doesn't even dignify that with a response, just reaches for the bag of jerky and pulls out a chunk of fox. He holds it by the curl of bone that's still attached and takes a bite, the meat smoky and not unpleasant. Dean vastly prefers the Hearts brand to the Apples brand. Apples' brand jerky tastes like sawdust and wheat gluten.

"What about you?" Sam asks. Dean makes a querying noise, and Sam rolls his eyes but clarifies. "What'd you do? While I was talking to the woman from the Fifth City."

Dean swallows, holding up his free hand. He raises a finger. "Number one, no such thing as a survivor from the Fifth City." Another finger. "And number two, it's none of your business."

"C'mon, Dean, I told you about my day. What'd you do, try to catch another tabby? You know they're not going to tell you anything, cats _hate_ you."

"Yuck it up, bitch," Dean says, and Sam laughs. "If we could get one of those little bastards to tell us where to find the deep amber deposit in Lawless…"

"You know Ruby's offered to help," Sam says quietly. "If we need money, she can lend us some."

Dean snorts. "At the cost of my immortal soul? No thanks. We both saw what happened to dad. Or do you want to end up the way he did?"

"No," Sam whispers. "I don't."

"Then don't go accepting things from _devils_, Sammy. Jesus."

Sam is quiet for a long time, gnawing disconsolately at his fox jerky. Something large and mildly phosphorescent flutters past the car, and Dean rolls up the windows with a muttered, "Freaking bats, man."

"Did you go and see that guy?" Sam asks abruptly. "The one who owns the bookstore? By the chandler."

"Dunno what you're talking about," Dean says, and Sam's eyes widen.

"You _did_! Dean, he's probably crazy! And addicted to honey, with how he just _stares_ at people. How's that guy any different from Ruby, huh?"

"Because Castiel isn't a _devil_, that's why."

"You're on a first name basis with him, now? Wow, Dean. Just…wow."

"Shut up," Dean mutters. "He's…weird."

"Weird, how? Weird like he swallows live bats for fun? Or weird like he shouts poetry at you and tries to kill you if you don't applaud enough?"

"Not weird like Listless Pete," Dean corrects. "That guy's just fuckin' nuts. No, Cas… He says he's an _angel_."

"_What_?"

Dean picks at the fraying cuff of his jacket, frowning. "I know, it's stupid. No such thing as angels."

"Well, there is such a thing as devils," Sam says carefully. "But…even if they were real, I don't think an angel would be all the way down here. I mean, the 'Neath is…pretty close to Hell, if you think about it. What would an angel be doing running a bookstore so close to Hell?"

"I asked him the same thing," Dean says, absently watching out the window as a swarm of bats passes by the car, almost silver in the moonish light. One of them smashes headfirst into a large fungal growth protruding from a nearby stalagmite – it falls to the ground and is immediately set upon by a sorrow-spider that had been lying in wait. Dean watches the spider carry it, squealing, off into the darkness. It's starting to get late – or early, as it were. Soon the streetlights will be turned on and daygoers will open their windows and doors, and all the nightgoers will slink back to their beds to wait patiently for the World Clock to blip over to six p.m. Waiting for the streetlights to turn off again.

Dean pulls his keys from his pocket, starting the Impala up – the engine turns over with a low, coughing whine. There are small oil fields in Montana Below, but minor fiends have plagued the tunnels to Hellena for the past month or so, and gasoline in Lawless is expensive and hard to find as a result. His baby will run off of biofuel for a long time, but he hates to see her so miserable. He turns on the headlights, frightening a small group of rats and sending them scattering, leaving their miniature tools behind. Dean almost feels bad, except a rat once screwed him over on the price of a restored Zippo, so the feeling doesn't last very long.

"What'd he say?" Sam asks, more interested than skeptical. "About being here. Is he…?" Sam voice pitches lower, hushed and reverent. "Is he from the Surface?"

Dean doesn't understand Sam's obsession with the Surface. Neither of them have ever been there, and they've got no reason to _want_ to go there, aside from to see sunshine for the first time. And besides, it's not like it's possible, anyways. Too much has happened. The Bazaar is very good at making sure that you can never leave Below.

"He said he was here for someone," Dean murmurs. "Someone special. But he wouldn't say who. "

"Huh," Sam says, and falls silent. Dean pulls away from the Stolen River, the parking lot empty save for them and a small group of Rubbery Men leaning over the pier, several of them tossing chunks of mushroom bread to the blindfish while another waits off to the side, holding a short spear. Every time one of the fish gets close enough to skewer the one holding the spear hoots excitedly and scares it off, apparently unable to contain himself. It's a vicious circle. Dean hopes they catch themselves some dinner soon.

"So, that's it?" he asks as they pull out onto the main road, heading back into Lawless. "No more 'you're making a mistake, Dean'? No more disapproving looks?"

"Nah," Sam says. "I mean, you'll go and see him again whether I approve or not. Same as I'm going to see Ruby again whether _you_ approve or not. So we might as well just drop the whole thing."

Dean bites his lip, but doesn't say anything. Sam, as much as he hates to admit it, has got a point. It's exceedingly dangerous to rub shoulders with just about _everybody_ in the Below, whether you're near the Bazaar or not. Almost as dangerous as it is to be completely _without_ friends. Whether Castiel is an angel or not matters about as much as whether Ruby actually likes Sam or is just talking to him because she's bored and has nothing better to do. Either one might help them.

Either one might _hurt_ them.

"I'm hungry," Dean announces, and Sam sits up a little straighter. "Want to head to that little place by Pawn Avenue?"

"The one that Bobby says isn't sanctioned by the Masters?" Sam asks, nose wrinkling. Dean shrugs.

"I've got some extra Echoes."

"Okay," Sam agrees, after a moment of thought. "Just as long as it isn't more fox."

Dean laughs as they pull out onto the highway, swarms of huge bats wheeling crazily above their heads, and the moonish light gradually being replaced by the glare of the streetlights as the World Clock finally chimes six.


End file.
